In July 1999, I was invited to a costume party. The theme was “lounge,” so my date and I dressed accordingly. We went to a thrift shop and bought hilarious outfits befitting the occasion. He was a younger Hugh Heffner, and I was some-kind-of-fabulous in black velvet, satin gloves and a feather boa. My date was in the “friend zone,” but he didn’t know it at the time. He made me laugh more than anyone, and I absolutely loved being around him. He was my BFF, but he wanted more. I was 24 years old that summer.
Over the course of maybe two hours, my BFF got me drunker than I have ever been in my life. He accomplished that by continually refilling my glass before I had time to finish my drinks, thus making it impossible to gauge how much I had had. Before long, I was feeling nauseous and had to step outside for some fresh air (or risk bathing the shag carpets in repurposed orange-flavoured California Cooler.) Another boy at the party offered to Continue reading “My Vanilla Rape”